


My heart is mute

by MildredMost



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Prayer, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22823170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/pseuds/MildredMost
Summary: Dr David Hardwicke has taken a berth on an East Indiaman to India. To his disgust, he must share a cabin with a zealous, priggish, annoyingly handsome preacher.
Relationships: St. John Rivers/OMC
Comments: 20
Kudos: 57
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	My heart is mute

“And your cabin is just along here, Doctor,” the steward told him, throwing open a small wooden door. Dr David Hardwicke ducked under the lintel and edged his large frame into the room.

The cabin was tiny enough for a man of his size, but - and curses to his current state of poverty - he was also to have a cabin mate. Blinking in the dark room, David realised his cabin mate was already there.

He had his slender back to David and was staring in silence out of the small porthole. David felt himself staring a little at the man’s narrow waist and the way he held himself, straight and still, his fair hair gleaming in the light from the window. _None of that, now,_ he told himself. They were to be trapped together in this room for months and what was the use in spending the time yearning.

At that moment the man turned, and David’s heart sank. God be damned, a _clergyman_.

“Good afternoon sir,” the young clergyman said, and there was a lilt of Yorkshire to his voice. This was the only earthy thing about him. His face might have been carved from marble, so perfect was it in its hard-edged beauty. His skin was pale and flawless, his deep blue eyes fringed with long lashes. The only thing soft about that face was his mouth, and even though he held it pressed in a hard line, David could see the curved fullness of his lips.

“I am Dr David Hardwicke,” he said, gathering his wits. He held out a hand. “I’m bound for Calcutta.”

“Mr St John Rivers,” he replied, taking David’s hand very briefly. His hand was strong and cold. “And I am bound to do my Sovereign’s service, and speak Heaven’s words in the ear of those who would not hear it.” His eyes blazed with fervor as he spoke the words.

 _A zealot,_ thought David with disgust. _Wonderful._

And a zealot he proved to be. Before the journey was two days old, David had sickened of St John Rivers' interminable graces before meals, his fire and brimstone sermons, and the length of time he spent on his knees every night, praying. He was so still while he did this, his fair head bowed and his back perfectly straight, that David could not help but watch him. Everything about the man was still, repressed, contained. There seemed no natural joy in him at all, just this feverish devotion to his God.

And yet, there was something about him which compelled David’s attention. Not his religion, for David had little interest in any of that. But now and again, in solitary moments, there would be a change in his demeanor and expression. Almost imperceptible, but there.

The zealot, David realised, was desperately unhappy.

Unhappy, and before very long, unwell. David was an excellent sailor, but even his stomach was being turned by the great Atlantic breakers they hit as they sailed towards Africa. By the time they experienced their first storm, St John was bed-bound.

At first he tried to repulse David’s attempts at help. But by the second day of helpless retching he was too weak to argue.

“Do I really appear so incompetent that you’d think me incapable of treating a case of seasickness?” David said, guessing that exasperation rather than kindness might go down better.

St John, his pallor corpse-like, gave in and slumped back on his pillow. “This is a trial sent to test me,” he said quietly, folding his hands against his chest. “If I can withstand this then it is a sign my mission will be a success.”

“It’s seasickness, not the sufferings of Job,” David said, dipping a handkerchief in a jug of water, and gently wiping St John’s brow. “You’re not dying. In a couple of days you’ll get your sea legs and you’ll be right as rain. Now let me change your shirt.”

Mutely, St John let him.

St John under his clothes was a pleasant surprise. Rather than the skinny frame David had expected he was well muscled and almost athletic, though far too slim. He pulled the clean shirt down over the man’s head lest he be tempted to look at him for too long.

“Here’s another way your mission will be a success - if you put some weight on,” he said severely. “I notice you deny yourself, that you never eat to satiation…”

“Greed is…”

“Yes, yes,” David said. “And that’s all very well in England. But most Englishmen catch a stomach complaint or two on arrival in India, and if there’s nothing of you, you won’t survive it. And then where will your mission be?”

St John looked mutinous.

“For all you know, God sent me to tell you that,” David said, smugly. “So next time there’s pudding on the menu I’ll expect you to indulge.”

St John looked almost amused at this pronouncement, but then groaned. “Don’t talk of pudding, I cannot think of it. Oh, Hardwicke, I believe I need your assistance again…”

David reached for the basin.

As David had predicted, St John’s seasickness abated within a few days, but left him wasted and weak. David found himself coddling the man, chasing up clear soups and thinly sliced toast to tempt St John’s fickle appetite. It was boredom, he told himself. The rest of the passengers and crew had remained remarkably well and he had nothing else to occupy him. And the source of St John’s sadness still intrigued him.

Returning to the cabin from the mess with a tray he found St John attempting to read his bible, a hand pressed to his forehead.

“I thought I prescribed rest,” David said, laying the tray down. St John glanced up, his eyes hollow.

“I cannot sleep,” he said.

“I’ll read to you while you eat,” David said, taking up the book. A little spirit of wickedness rose up in him. “But I shall choose the verses.”

St John looked as though he was about to protest, but sat back and picked up his spoon instead.

David turned to the Songs of Solomon, to some verses a lover of his had read him once. Before he had fucked off with a young Lord who owned most of Oxfordshire, that was. Bloody actors. The verses themselves were rather lovely though, and David wanted to see what would happen to that marble face when he heard them aloud.

“I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine, and the smell of thy nose like apples,” he began. “And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved, that goeth down sweetly.” He paused, remembering how his lover had read that part with a pleasurable shiver “...causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak.”

“I _was_ reading the Psalms,” St John said. David ignored him.

“I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me. Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages.” His lover had relished reading this to him, entwined around each other in a tumbled bed. Often they didn’t make it to the end of the verse before succumbing to each other again.

“Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth…”

“Hardwicke,” St John said, and the tone of his voice made David glance up quickly. He had flushed pink, his hand clenched around the edge of the tray. Something made David finish the verse.

“There will I give thee my...”

“Enough,” St John said, his voice hoarse. “Thank you. I wish to rest now.”

“Very well,” David said, feeling suddenly ashamed of his provocation of the man. He was unwell after all. He closed the bible and held it out towards St John, but as he did, a letter slipped from the pages and drifted to the floor.

St John reached for it quickly, and David snatched it up and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” St John said, looking at the letter, not David. It was written in a strong masculine hand, and was very well worn. St John glanced up, his blue eyes unreadable. “You seem curious. It is merely a letter I haven’t responded to yet, there is nothing thrilling in it. See here,” he said, holding it out. “You may read it.”

Puzzled, David unfolded it. It was from a Mr Oliver of Morton. As St John said, there was nothing out of the ordinary in it - there was affection indeed, and an assertion that St John would be missed by the town and by Mr Oliver’s daughter Rosamund (who was recently married). But nothing to explain how often it had been read, or why it would be kept so carefully in the cover of his bible. Unless.

“Rosamund Oliver,” he guessed. “You loved her and she married another.”

“You are perceptive,” St John said, a strange smile on his lips. “And almost right. But my heart is not broken over Rosamund Oliver. In truth, I could have married her - there were no obstacles to prevent it. But I did not want it. I know my calling; what I am bound to do by my infallible Master, and I...”

“Then no. You are right,” David said, interrupting this speech. He felt unsettled, as though he had been part of a conversation he could only hear some of. He handed the letter back. “There is nothing thrilling in it. A perfectly ordinary letter expressing mild regret that you have gone.”

A shadow passed over St John’s face at David’s words. He nodded. “As I said.”

David, still feeling unmoored by St John, left him alone.

But not for long. He had to admit to himself that he was drawn to St John - both by his looks and his inscrutability. But his fervour while preaching was frightening, and left those who heard it feeling fearful and small. There was no comfort in it, only a hardness that to David seemed forced. As though St John was punishing himself. He seemed to allow little mercy for human fallibility.

But yet when they were alone together, there was no one onboard who David would rather talk to.

“Another storm is due, so says Captain Wilson,” David said, joining St John one evening on his stroll around the deck. “Can you not say a prayer and divert it? The captain of the foretop had promised to take me on a climb to the topgallant yard.”

And very handsome the young captain was too. The invitation had been for more than just a tour of the rigging, and they both knew it. And David could do with the distraction. However unwise it was to start a fling, David had been spending far too much time contemplating St John’s handsome profile, generous mouth, and long legs. Imagining that body beneath his. Wondering what that mouth, which delivered such vicious sermons, might feel like around his…

“A little heretical to suggest I perform a miracle,” St John said and David blinked.

“I am only in jest, Rivers. You needn’t take me so seriously,” he said.

St John’s face relaxed into a smile and David felt a little breathless at this rarity. If his face was handsome when still, then when animated it was quite, quite beautiful.

“Quite right Hardwicke - you _should_ mock me,” he said. “One of my greatest failings is that I cannot stand to be mocked. It is a quirk of vanity and should be stamped upon. But the only person who ever dared do it was my cousin Jane.”

“Tell me of Jane,” David said, charmed by his candour. The ship lurched to one side and he took St John’s arm to save him measuring his length over a coil of rope. St John looked at him, surprised.

“The wind is getting up,” he said, not releasing him. St John did not pull away. He felt slight as a bird against David, and yet there was such a repressed strength in the arm he held.

They continued their stroll. “Tell me of your cousin,” David said again as they walked onwards.

St John did. Jane’s story was a fascinating one and St John told it well. And all the while David was very aware of St John against him, his arm wound through David’s, his hair teasing against David’s cheek.

“I wonder what ailed the lady,” David said afterwards of Bertha. “Surely more could have been done for her. She must have felt a terrible desperation about her situation.”

St John gave him a thoughtful look from beneath his lashes. “Not many people hearing that story would have wondered about her wellbeing at all,” he said.

“I am a physician,” David said with a shrug.

“You are a kind one,” St John said, and then closed his mouth firmly as though he regretted having said it.

“Is that not an advantage?” David said, beginning their second circuit of the deck. He’d realised he’d missed any chance of a dalliance with the young captain he’d been meant to meet, and he didn’t quite care.

“It must surprise people. I made a study of your physiognomy when I first saw you and drew quite different conclusions,” St John said.

 _That’s because physiognomy is a lot of codswallop,_ David wanted to say, but didn’t. He felt as though a wild bird had descended and perched upon his hand, and he didn’t want to do anything to frighten it away.

“I boxed at University, rather unsuccessfully,” David explained. “My nose never recovered. I’m afraid I look a little thuggish. We can’t all be pictures of Grecian perfection.”

“What do you mean?” St John said, stopping to look at him.

“You, of course,” David said. He smiled. “You must know it. Don’t they have looking-glasses in vicarages?”

He was surprised to see a flush rise to St John’s pale cheeks that even the whip of the wind hadn’t achieved. His eyes were wide and he parted his lips as though to say something. Then he looked away, out at the horizon.

“I am very far from perfection,” he said. “Though I pray for the strength to become so, every single day.”

David gave him a moment, then gently tugged on the arm he still held. “Come along, Rivers, lest the wind send us overboard,” he said.

St John nodded briefly and led them back to the door to the lower deck. David, not mindful of his height, thumped his head on the doorframe.

“You really are entirely too large for most rooms, aren’t you?” St John said, amused.

That walk was a turning point, in David’s mind. They spoke more freely with each other afterwards, St John thawing out enough to laugh at David’s tales of the hospital he had trained at. David told some stories of the actors he knew too - the milder stories, with not too much fucking - and St John, while disapproving, would sit and listen. And David found himself more than half in love. He’d never garnered such attention from a man before without him suggesting that someone might want to suck someone else’s cock shortly afterward.

Not that he would have said no, of course.

David was watching sea birds through the Captain’s eye glass when the steward came to him with the message.

“Sir, Mr Rivers would like to see you please,” he said, his face rosy.

“Well, is his leg broken? He can come to me,” David said, watching the satisfying way the gulls rode the thermals.

The steward looked even more worried. “It seemed...I mean, he was most emphatic you were to come to him,” he said.

“Very well,” David said, a small worry curling in his stomach.

He got to the cabin to find everything on end and St John in the centre of it, a wild look in his eye.

“Have you _taken_ it?” he demanded. The steward disappeared and David closed the cabin door, locking it for good measure.

“What’s this all about?” he said, turning back.

“My letter. You know the one I mean, the very one,” St John said passionately. “Have you hidden it from me for a joke? Give it back to me now, I implore you.”

“The letter from your bible,” David said. “Why on earth would I do such a thing?”

“It’s gone,” St John said, his eyes spitting fire. “And you are the only other person who knows it exists.”

“I haven’t taken it. I would never do any such thing,” David said. “But you said yourself it was of no importance, so why…”

“It is _not_ of no importance,” St John said.

“The letter from the girl’s father?” David said.

“Mr Oliver, yes,” St John said, and the look on his face as he said the name aloud gave David several realisations at once.

"He is the source of your unhappiness," he said.

St John looked frightened. "I am not unhappy."

“It was Mr Oliver himself,” he said. “It wasn’t the loss of his daughter you mourn but the loss of _him_.”

St John swallowed and pressed his lips tightly closed.

“You felt a connection to him. You hoped perhaps he felt it too. But he didn’t.” David took a step closer. “You gave me his letter to read because you wanted to know if I could see anything in it, anything you might have missed. Why did you think I might know?”

St John still didn’t speak.

“Could you tell that I have had very strong admirations for men in the past?” David said gently. “That I might know whether there was a hidden message there? There was not. I’m sorry St John.”

A delicate flush rose up St John’s throat to his face.

“I don’t mean to hurt you,” David said.

“How can you hurt me more than the abominations I have let myself want,” St John said bitterly.

David leant over St John’s bed for a moment, having seen a corner of paper wedged there against the wall. Carefully he drew out the letter.

“Here,” he said. “In bed with you all along.” He stepped towards St John, who was taking small, gulping breaths.

“I should throw it on a fire,” St John said, pressing a hand to his eyes. David could see he was shaking.

“I have tried to purify myself,” he continued. “Sacrifice my life to the glory of Our Saviour. I wish to lay down my life to serve Him. And yet I pray, and I praise him and I spread the Word, but this weakness...it is in my very soul. I was put in this room with you as a trial, and I have failed it.”

“Failed?” David said.

“I...yes,” St John said, sounding close to tears. David’s mind raced.

“You want me,” David said. “St John? Is that how you have failed?”

St John’s throat worked as he dragged his eyes to David’s. He gave a brief nod.

“Oh thank God,” David said.

St John’s eyes darkened and his full lips parted as David came closer. He made a small sound as David leant towards him but still he did not move.

“Shall I stop?” David murmured against St John’s ear. Though St John was holding himself utterly still, David could see the rise and fall of his chest, and feel him trembling. _Oh break, break,_ he thought to himself. _Let yourself feel._

St John whispered something and David strained to hear him. He realised he was praying.

“You wish to pray?” David said, furious suddenly. St John looked at him with dazed eyes.

“Very well.” He dropped to his knees before St John.

He heard the shuddering breath the other man took as he bowed his head in front of him. He glanced up at St John, to see the effect this might be having.

St John was watching him, his eyes wide. His hands were clenched against the wooden side of the bunk, his knuckles white. The rest of him, buttoned tightly as ever into his neat waistcoat, did not move.

“David, get up,” St John said. “I beg you.” The strain was apparent in his voice now, his control evaporating piece by piece. David stayed still, waiting to see what St John would do next.

St John unclenched one of his hands and held it shakily above David’s head as though blessing him. David closed his eyes and bowed his head. St John brought his hand down upon David’s head and rested it there for a brief moment.

Then he slid his fingers into David’s hair.

David moaned with surprise and opened his eyes to see St John watching him. With a grace he didn’t usually possess he got back to his feet.

He lowered his mouth onto St John’s and pressed a gentle kiss there. Suddenly the other man was gasping against him, lips open, letting David push his tongue into his mouth. The sounds he was making would sustain David for years. David buried his fingers in that fine fair hair, all the while bucking against him like a desperate virgin. Which, most likely, St John was. He rutted against him some more, letting himself moan against St John’s lips, which only sent the man wilder. Oh good Christ he looked beautiful. He tried to slow himself and savour this but every press of St John’s body was sending a firework of want through him, and then St John shifted and _fuck_ David could feel his hardness press against him, and oh he was gone, he was done for. He kissed St John deep and slow in his aftershocks, and had the pleasure of seeing him come to pieces as he had a shuddering climax against him.

He held him close afterwards for a long time. St John wept, as David suspected he might. He was in a state of shock and fright at himself of course. David held him as he cried, stroking his back, his hair. And when he didn’t calm, David reached for his medical kit and found something that would help. Then he’d put him in bed and watched as he curled onto his side and fallen asleep immediately. Lying down on his own bunk, he let himself drift off too.

When he woke, St John was sitting by him, looking at him.

“Good...evening?” David tried, having no idea of the time.

“It is,” St John said. He was pale as the dawn, and his eyes were reddened and swollen, but something had changed in his expression. A tension which had always tightened all his features seemed to have gone.

David sat up on his elbows. “Have you been at prayer?”

“I tried to pray, but found I didn’t want to,” he said.

“Good heavens, St John - what have I done to you?” David said. St John smiled one of his breathtaking smiles.

“Given me peace?” he suggested.

“Well…” David was at a loss for words. “I can’t say I’ve ever managed that with a man before.”

“I just feel very...complete,” St John said. “Though I’ve sinned so terribly. I don’t quite understand it.”

“I wouldn’t even try to,” David said. He held out an arm. “Come here then, till the fear of hellfire comes upon you again.”

He wrapped his arms around St John, holding him close and peppering his hair and forehead with kisses. They lay there for an hour more, talking idly.

“Would you come to the Mission with me for a while?” St John asked David, his face buried against David’s neck.

“For you I would,” David said. “I’ve no great love of the Mission itself.”

“No, I’ve gathered that. But you would come, as...as a friend.”

“Friend,” David said. “Partner. Whatever you wish to call it. I’d marry you, if I could,” he added impulsively, though it was true enough.

St John held him tighter. “I understand now what Jane...how I distressed her. “My heart is mute” she said. My heart was mute too, though it was I who silenced it. You would marry me you say?”

“I would.”

“Perhaps you have struck your head on the doorframe a time too often,” St John said, but he kissed David carefully, and David kissed him back.

It felt like a promise of a future.


End file.
